Pancake Tuesday
by Pickled Rellish
Summary: AU. The Dursley’s are always dubbing Harry as stupid, just because his skills lie in survival rather than Mathematical. A short, pointless look into Harry’s life at his relatives and how one child has already learnt the means of survival. Slight angst.


**Author's Notes:** This is just random cute, almost fluff-type story. Features an eight-year-old Harry Potter (I seem very fond of that age for some reason) and it just shows a little… insight into his life at the Dursley's. Not that well written and what-not, but meh. You'll live.

**Warning:** Soft mentions of abuse, starvation and neglect. Not overly so.

**Summary: **AU. The Dursley's are always dubbing Harry as stupid, just because his skills lie in survival rather than Mathematical. A short, pointless look into Harry's life at his relatives and how one child has already learnt the means of survival.

**Notes:** This is a NOT re-post for a change, it's brand spanking new. Go me. Enjoy!

**Dedication: **This is a callout to Lisa, who has reviewed everything I've posted, without fail. It seemed to me, the sort of subtle thing that you may enjoy. Love you, Lisa!

**Disclaimer:** Nope. Not mine. Imagine the possibilities if they were though!

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**Pancake Tuesday  
**By Pickled Rellish

Harry wasn't as stupid as the Dursley's made him out to be; he knew that. He sometimes thought that they knew it too, it was quite possible that they did. The black-haired youth - whose wild black-hair was, and would always be, a matter of annoyance to his Aunt, as it never stayed down flat as it much preferred to look as though it'd been dancing in the wind - wasn't all too good at Maths, and if one were being honest, his English skills weren't really up-to-par. No. Harry's skills didn't lie in education - it lay, rested, pretended to be dormant, in survival skills.

He knew when to duck when a frying pan was hurled his way courtesy of his Aunt, with such force that it would dint the pristine white walls of the kitchen. He knew how hard his Uncle would slap him, depending on how much the man had had to drink. Harry also knew how to sprint away from Dudley and his gang, as well as the best routes to loose them quicker and secret, known only to him, hideouts in which he'd crouch in and stay hidden for hours.

The youth, who had knobbly-knees and sparking emerald eyes, was careful to avoid his teachers suspicious questioning on where _his _pack-lunch was while his cousin guzzled twice his body weight with his own lunch; he skirted around the Nurse's probing and insistence that he needed to eat more, and if didn't, she'd call in his guardians. The dramatic irony is that his relatives were the ones starving him. Harry would just smile that dazzling smile of his - the pearly teeth were brushed with his own finger and a blob of cheap, minty-tasting toothpaste, twice a day - and chirp out some innocent, sweet-sounding reply and bound off, until he was around the corner and he was back to being Harry the Freak that all the boys and girls hated.

The tiny, fragile thing was suburb at cleaning bedrooms; vacuum cleaners, dusters; _Mr Sheen_. He could clean any room in the house within an hour - flat rate. Harry knew how to cook too, and he proudly thought that he was better than even his Aunt, he knew how to wash the dishes without leaving streak-marks on them and he knew how long to let greasy pans soak until he could simply _wipe _the grime off them. After cooking for the Dursley's since he was about five-and-a-half, he'd just about learnt how much each of the family members could stomach before becoming full. His Aunt ate very little while his Uncle ate triple of what his dainty wife did. Dudley, however, could eat four times more than his huge Father before becoming full.

He only used that knowledge to his advantage every year, on a certain day, time of month, so they wouldn't get suspicious.

Pancake Tuesday.

Harry had a serious weak-spot for pancakes, he loved the airy feeling and how light they were in his mouth, how they tasted when covered, coated, slicked with honey and rolled in sugar; he loved the fact that no matter what, every year, he got some. It was his treat, one bestowed on him, reluctantly, by the Dursley's. He knew how many pancakes to make so that not all of them would be eaten, so that Dudley would finally admit defeat, his face a bit green, and begrudgingly push the half-eaten, sweet-tasting pancakes over to Harry, simply because they didn't like throwing food away and always, _always_, fed Harry the left-overs of any meal. Keeping a lid on his smile was hard enough, and he'd fight and fight, 'least the Dursley's knew how much he loved the sugary treat.

The Dursley's would shuffle off into the Living Room, to watch T.V and to leave their charge alone in the kitchen, warning him, with spittle flying from their mouths, that as soon as he'd done eating, he needed to wash up before retiring to his cupboard. Harry knew to nod at these times, nod, agree and obey without question. He'd climb into the chair and sit at the table, like a normal person, a novel thing indeed, before tucking into his well-deserved and year-long awaited for, pancakes.

Perhaps that it was unfortunate that Dumbledore choose that precise moment to check-up on Harry, for he failed to see the impossibly thin body, hidden beneath large, hand-me-down, clothes as he was; failed to see that the unbidden joy in Harry's sparking orbs was such a rare occurrence, that they literally shinned with all their mite as he tucked into his second sugar-and-honey coated pancake. Albus Dumbledore, renown wizard across the globe, failed to see the neglect of possibly, the most important child in the fight of the Light… and all in favour of the young child eating pancakes, as though they were the last meal he'd be getting in a long time; savouring the honey and sugar that stuck to his lips, seeing how long he could leave it there, until it irritated him and he licked the concoction off with a smile and silent giggle.

The periwinkle colour of Dumbledore's eyes mellowed out, as he smiled softly, "You are fine," he whispered from where he stood, not ten paces away from the boy in the kitchen. "You are safe." The already invisible wizard disappeared with a swish of his cloak, not casting the child another look, or thought, for the next three years.

Harry continued to relish his pancakes, eating them slowly, cutting them up into small pieces as he munched away, oblivious to Albus' musings.

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End file.
